


Cares

by yeaka



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Canon Slavery, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3385241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus is fed the hope that Esca hasn’t abandoned him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cares

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Special thanks to Imera as usual for the muse powers. ;)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Eagle or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s grown used to missing baths in the north, though he never had much luxury in the barracks, either. At least then the wounds he couldn’t wash were earned with honour, training and battle. Now his head feels like it’s split open, and the caked on blood is more than he has time to chip away. He tastes copper in his mouth no matter how much he spits. His hands are calloused and broken and caked with mud. The dirt is everywhere, and every time he goes to run a hand through his hair, he comes away wincing: everything’s sweat, dirt, blood, and tangles.

And the worst of it is that the hole in his chest hurts more. The physical ache is nothing to the knowledge that he’s been betrayed and left _alone_ , when he would’ve given Esca _anything_.

Now he’s alone in the slave tent, maybe with what he deserved. Four of the seal warriors converged on him and beat him down, claiming to be wrestling for fun but really just wanting a chance to beat a Roman. Esca was off with the prince, like he always is, and Marcus couldn’t put up much of a fight even if he wanted to, even if all his limbs were working: there were too many of them. He crumbled shamefully fast, and his knee’s still screaming that he didn’t buckle earlier. 

He pushes back into the shadows of the tent. If he went down to the river, he could maybe wash some of the remnants away. But then he’d have to walk through them with his head hung and his body sullied, and it’s easier just to curl up on his own and fight the urge to cry.

When the tent first opens, he doesn’t bother moving. The other slaves never look at him. They can’t communicate with him, yet they seem to know he’s trouble. Then he tastes the familiar musk in the air of _Esca_ , a scent he’s grown accustomed too and _missed_ in his time together. They used to sleep side by side every night. Now, he doesn’t know who Esca is anymore. 

Esca ducks into the tent, creeping forward half at a crouch, the flap falling closed behind him. The fire was dwindling when Marcus came in, but it’s enough to see the outline of Esca’s lithe body and the glint in his eyes. His expression his hard, like it always is here. Marcus pushes to sit up, but he doesn’t have enough the energy to be angry today. He can’t even snarl.

He murmurs, “Esca—”

And Esca snaps, “Don’t talk.” He says everything with such _ferocity_. He was never suited to be a slave, maybe even less so than Marcus is. Marcus would like to think the harsh words are for his own protection, but his faith is dying. 

Esca comes to kneel in front of him. At first, Marcus thinks he’s going to be slapped. He sits half sprawled on the hard floor and tries to look Esca defiantly in the eye.

Esca lifts a damp cloth to the side of Marcus’ face. Marcus winces away, at first—he didn’t see it amidst the rag of Esca’s sleeve and the darkness around them. Esca makes a hushing noise, like soothing a skittish horse. Then he moves closer, dabbing the cloth along the underside of Marcus’ jaw. 

He lifts it to wipe over Marcus’ cheek, traces Marcus’ temple, gently rubbing the caked blood away. As he runs the soft material over Marcus’ forehead, Marcus remembers being home with his uncle and having Esca wipe the sweat off his brow after a nightmare or a spasm from his leg. 

The tables have turned since then, but the restrained tenderness is there. There’s a gentleness in Esca’s treatment, but it’s buried under a wall of strength, a necessary defense. Marcus lets his head be guided around, so Esca can clean his other side. He has to close his eyes when the cloth swipes over them, but he opens again as soon as he can, because he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to see Esca’s face again. It’s a sight that both haunts his dreams and keeps him going. Esca wipes down his neck, carefully cleaning his throat, and then flattens the whole cloth over Marcus’ collarbone to do a peripheral sweep of his shoulders and the top of his chest, dipping beneath his tunic.

When Esca’s done, the cloth is completely soiled. He drops it at Marcus’ side, and Marcus’ breath holds, waiting for the rest. 

Esca’s fingers splay over the sides of his face, the tips running back into his hair. Esca tilts him down, and Marcus obeys, bowing his head to the one man he would’ve trusted with his life.

Esca presses a warm, gentle kiss against his forehead. It’s soft and light, but it spreads across Marcus’ skin like wildfire. He trembles in Esca’s hands. 

But Esca has to pull away and get to his feet. Esca has to leave, and Marcus has to stay behind, longing.


End file.
